Knight Triumphant. Heather Graham

eyes . . . eyes of death, haunted, the gray of agony, the white of death, the red of all the blood that had spilled . . .

      He woke with a start.

      And lay there, feeling numb. His wife, and his daughter were gone. Blood, horror, battle, sickness, death, gone.

      There was only the numbness . . .

      He rose, restless in the night.

      Aye, numbness, he felt numbness. But when he forced himself to move, he realized that there was more.

      He had regained his strength.

      And his fury to fight.

      It was time to ride.

      Before the dawn broke, they were prepared to strike out on their journey again.

      They could move faster now. They were mounted.

      Igrainia found little fault with the shaggy horse Father Padraic had found for her to ride. Her name was Skye, and she had a sweet disposition, even if she had a slow lope.

      Skye wasn’t young, but good horses were hard to come by in the area. One good way to kill a knight was to kill the mount beneath him, and slay him when he crashed to the ground with the weight of his mail and plate. Well trained warhorses were extremely expensive, but when armies vied over a territory, few were sold because war gave men an excuse to steal, and in the Borders, horses had been seized by men bowing down before both kings.

      Father Padraic was there to wish them Godspeed, as all the pilgrims who found shelter in his village rose to ride at the same time. Fresh baked loaves of bread were given out, along with what smoked and cured meat could be spared.

      Father Padraic had said Mass at the first hint of the pink dawn, and all that was left for them to do was to receive his final blessing, and move on.

      As Igrainia mounted her horse, Rowenna and Gregory sidled near her. Rowenna offered her a cup of cool water and what should have been bread wrapped in linen.

      It wasn’t bread.

      She had been given a dagger.

      She accepted the gift smoothly and stared down at the girl.

      “I wish that you were among us, you and Gregory,” she told her.

      Rowenna offered her a smile. She touched the ugly scar that marred what had been a pretty face.

      “I will never go to London,” she said softly. “This was the gift of an English earl.”

      “I’m so sorry.”

      “We all bear scars in life. Mine is not so hard. I survive here. I have Father Padraic and a dear young friend. I have lost husband, father, mother, brother and most of my other kin. I have survived to tell the tales to those who come behind us. Scotland is my home.”

      “There is little difference in living in the lowlands of Scotland, and in England,” Igrainia told her.

      “One day, there will be.”

      Gregory stood behind Rowenna, still appearing troubled.

      Igrainia knew that he must read lips. “It will be all right,” she told him.

      “He’s very worried. He wishes he could tell you more. And he says that you are one of us, though I have tried to explain that you are going to London to be married. But then, you’re not who you say you are, so, perhaps that is not true either.”

      “I am going to London,” Igrainia said. “Whatever comes from there, none of us really knows right now. I will pray for you both, for your lives, for your happiness, but I hope that once I have ridden away, I never return.”

      Rowenna said, “We will pray for you as well.”

      Father Padraic had lifted a hand for silence; they all bowed their heads as he offered them God’s blessing for their journey.

      The four young men were in the lead. They were on better horses than the others; horses they had procured themselves, before coming here.

      Ahead of Igrainia, John and Merry were riding beside Anne and Joseph. The rest of Anne’s family was lining up behind them.

      Igrainia offered a final wave to Rowenna and Gregory.

      Gregory was mouthing words and making hand signs to Rowenna. Rowenna looked after Igrainia, a strange look in her eyes.

      “What is it?”

      Rowenna shook her head. “He believes that you have a stronger will and spirit than you know yourself. He knows that you will fare well, but still, he will beg God to protect you until we meet again.”

      “Bless you, Gregory!” Igrainia said, touched by their fervent desire to be her spiritual protectors. “God be with you both!”

      She nudged her shaggy horse, and the animal jounced into a jarring trot. As the others moved ahead, the trot became a bearable lope.

      They left the village behind.

      England lay ahead. Death and darkness lay behind.

      She did not look back.

      He spoke from the old stone steps leading from the courtyard of Langley to the entrance to the great hall.

      Peter had seen that the people had been assembled, from the lowliest of the kitchen help to the knights and armed soldiers who had once ruled the battlements of the castle. He had his own band of men, those who had returned with him, and those who had survived the disease within the castle, not quite fifty in all, but many of the women and children had lived as well. If they couldn’t wield swords with strength and expertise, they could ferret out any plot to seize the castle back from the nationalists, and they could see to it that none escaped to seek help from the troops under the various men now in the service of King Edward. He felt with a certain assurance, as well, that the men to whom he had shown mercy, who had now sworn their loyalty to the King of the Scots, would abide by their oaths—they knew that their fates would not include simple or painless deaths if they broke the solemn vows they had given.

      Since death had taken so many, there were no more than a hundred and fifty people in the courtyard, but all of them, those who were his own, and those who had been loyal to a different lord, watched him worriedly.

      “You have come to know me in the past few days, and know that I am a man of my word. It is a time to rebuild here, and I have no desire for any further bloodshed or death. We have all lost far too many people as it is. Peter MacDonald, who led you through sickness and brought you through, will continue to lead you while I am away. His every command will be like the voice of God. Those who heed him will do well, and find a way from the pain and death that have robbed us all of those we loved. You have all found mercy at our hands during a time when hatreds run so deep, even little children have met the sword of the conquerors. A castle such as Langley cannot fall, unless it falls from within. And I will tell you a story that gives you fair warning. At Kildrummy, Nigel, brother of the king, Robert Bruce of Scotland, defended his fortification from constant and repeated attacks by the English. He and his men defended the castle so well that the English were nearly ready to give up. But there was a traitor within the castle walls. A blacksmith, a man named Osborne. He was bribed by a promise of great riches if he set a fire, and allowed the castle walls to fall. And so, he started a fire in the storehouse, and the fire spread, and indeed, the people within were sent to the walls, and the castle gates fell to the blaze as well, and the English were able to seize the fortification. For any thinking that they might do such a thing and reap the rewards of English gold, the story did not end there. The castle was taken. Nigel Bruce was executed. But Osborne did not prosper. The English kept their promise and gave him riches in gold. They melted it—and poured it down his throat. There is no way that any English lord, knight or warrior will believe that you have not fallen to the enemy. There is no real reward for betrayal—except death. We have kept every promise to you. This is Scotland, and you are the people of Scotland. We will have a long hard fight, but Robert Bruce is king, and will rule in the end, and what he will rule is a sovereign country.